Nelson Demille - The Panther

So I liked the Bedouin. Too bad we were going to whack their sheik. Hey, Abdul, it’s nothing personal. Just business.

Or for all I knew, Chet intended to whack these guys, too, on our way out of here. It would be nice if Chet told us what the hell was going on. But he probably figured that unpleasant information should be rationed out, like shit in a spoon.

Anyway, the picnic lunch was finished and it was time to examine the van.

Buck thanked our hosts for the meal and conversation, and Brenner told Zamo to keep Kate company. I asked Zamo how his arm was and he said it was fine, but it wasn’t. I also asked him to bring Kate some tea and gruel in case she was tired of tawwa bread. I am a great husband.

Chet, Buck, Brenner, and I moved across the courtyard to the twenty-first century.

The thirty-foot windowless box van sat on the chassis of a Mitsubishi truck, and the van didn’t open into the driver’s compartment.

I asked Buck, “What does this say?”

Buck read the Arabic on the van. “ ‘Musa’-which means Moses-‘purveyor of fine fish.’ ” He also translated, “ ‘Fresh to market from the Red Sea.’ ” Buck smiled and said, “Someone in Washington had fun with this.”

Right. A real knee-slapper. Musa-Moses-Red Sea. Get it?

Anyway, Chet did the honors and unlocked the padlock, opened one of the rear doors, and jumped inside. We all followed.

The interior of the van was high enough for us to stand, and the walls, floor, and ceiling were lined with Kevlar and, I assumed, lead. Unsurprisingly, there was no fish inside. Instead there was a large electronic console in the front of the van, similar to a pilot’s cockpit array. In front of the console and the twin monitors were two swivel chairs.

Chet took a seat in the left chair and he invited Buck, the oldest gentleman, to take the other seat. Brenner, ever vigilant, stood against a wall where he could divide his attention between the courtyard and the van.

There were a few more electronic devices mounted on the long walls of the van, and on the floor were metal boxes marked with the names of the replacement parts that they contained. More importantly, there were three cardboard boxes of canned food on the floor and I read the American brand labels-mixed fruit, mixed vegetables, and, maybe as a joke, canned tuna. Who’s supposed to eat this shit? Where’s the chili? Is this the best those bastards in Washington could do?

Chet said, “The electronics are low-powered so that everything can be run from our onboard generator.” He hit a switch on the console, and a few seconds later I could feel the vibration and hear the steady hum of the generator from somewhere under the floor. Chet also informed us, “There are electrical outlets in here so we can recharge our sat-phones, cell phones, and hand-held radios.”

Chet glanced up at a gauge on the panel. “Voltage is steady,” he announced as he hit another switch and the dark console suddenly lit up. “We’re in business.”

Chet played with a few dials, then switched on the two monitors and we immediately saw moving images on the screens-aerial shots in full color of two different landscapes gliding by.

Chet read some electronic info on his screen and said, “The right-hand monitor is the view from a Predator drone that is, at this moment, running autonomously-meaning without an active ground pilot. The drone is executing a reconnaissance flight over this area using a pre-programmed computer plan.”

The screen showed the rugged and unpopulated terrain west of here that we’d flown over last night. It was easy to see how guerrilla forces could disappear in those hills. And easy to imagine The Panther making those hills his home. It might not be so easy to draw him out of there. But with the right bait-Mr. and Mrs. Corey and company-The Panther might come out to eat his former American compatriots.

Chet said to us, “The images from both these Predators are transmitted by Ku-Band satellite link to this van and also to a ground control station where one or two pilots and aerial image specialists are sitting at a console similar to this one-in a van or in a room.”

I asked, “Where is the ground control station?”

Chet gave me a CIA reply. “It doesn’t matter. Could be in Saudi Arabia, could be an Air Force base in the States, and it could even be at Langley.” He also had a Zen reply. “With satellites and advanced electronics, real time is more important than real place. The only real place that matters is the target.”

Whatever. Thanks. I also asked, “Where are the Predator drones based?”

Chet replied, “I really don’t know or care to know.” He added, “And neither do you.”

Actually, I do, asshole. But I let it go.

Chet continued, “The pilots have a flight control stick like this one, but my stick is deactivated.”

Have you tried Viagra? Maybe less khat.

Chet confessed, “I’m not a pilot. But I can speak directly to the pilots and instruct and guide them regarding what I want or need.” He reminded us, “I am the one who has operational control of the Predator drones and the Hellfire missiles during the execution stage of the mission.” To make sure we understood, he also said, “I, along with the aerial image specialists, identify who or what is the target and I give the order to the pilots to launch the Hellfires.”

Right. That’s why it’s called the execution stage.

Chet, on a little power high, also said, “This is what we call SAA-stealthy aerial assassination.” He concluded, “Awesome.”

Indeed. But not as awesome as me blowing The Panther’s head off with my Colt.45.

And then there was our sometime friend Sheik Musa, who was a full-time enemy of our sometime friend President Saleh. Some genius in Washington had figured out how to make this plan work for everyone. The idiots in Sana’a feared the tribes more than they feared Al Qaeda, but the Americans were obsessed with wiping out Al Qaeda. So if we put those two obsessions together, then Washington and Sana’a, the so-called allies, could solve their different problems in the same way-a thunderbolt out of the blue. It actually was a smart idea, and even Sheik Musa, who knew a few things about double-dealing, would appreciate it. Probably The Panther would, too. They could both talk about it in Paradise.

Chet directed us to the screen in front of him and said, “That’s us.”

And sure enough, there was a nice overhead image of the Crow Fortress on the screen. The slow-flying Predator drone was flying a tight circle over the plateau and we could see a few hundred meters in all directions, including the road we’d taken here, and also the better road that came from Marib in the north.

Chet punched in a command on the keypad and the Predator’s camera enlarged the view of the fortress. I could see the Bedouin in the courtyard, sitting around, chatting and chewing.

Chet said, “The Predator is about ten thousand feet, but with the fifteen-hundred-millimeter computer-enhanced zoom lens, the view looks like it’s from about fifty feet.”

In fact, one of the Bedouin was taking a leak against the stone wall and I could see he wasn’t circumcised. Okay, maybe I assumed that.

Chet put his headphones on and made radio satellite contact with the ground control station. “Clean Sweep zero-zero, this is Clean Sweep six-six. Commo check.”

A few seconds later, a voice with a nice Down South accent came over the speaker. “Sweep six-six, loud and clear.”

Six-six said to zero-zero, “I called in a sat-phone sit-rep at five hundred hours, and I repeat, all okay.”

“Roger, six-six.” Zero-zero inquired, “Whacha’all have for lunch down there? Looked like grits.” Zero-zero laughed.